


Smarts, Dark, Dangerous Dog

by acab



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Martin Blackwood, Domestic Bliss, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24267019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acab/pseuds/acab
Summary: They would eat together to a show or a movie, normally of Jon’s choosing. After the sun went down for good, there were no schedules. Just them, just existing until they got too tired to exist anymore and went to bed.It was, by all accounts, perfect.It was the life that Martin had always wanted; a loving partner, a nice home, a little bit of structure
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Kudos: 83





	Smarts, Dark, Dangerous Dog

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this while yearning for my boyfriend and listening to the band bear hands so if u want an idea of the vibe just listen to the song giants on repeat. don't let the title fool you this is literally just domesticity

Martin wasn’t one for quiet, not after everything was over. He always had something playing, whether it be music, a podcast, something on YouTube he’d seen at three in the morning and fallen down a rabbit hole of. If Jon minded, he never brought it up. He’d just ask what Martin was listening to, nod, and file it away somewhere in his head. When they moved into a small house, it turned into some folksy band that Jon had told him about. Martin would spend hours arranging and rearranging little decorations they had scouted out at the local thrift shop. He’d almost suggested going into the antiques store, but the uneasy feeling in his stomach and Jon’s furrowed brows were enough to deter him. The first batch was a set of little glass animals, which he finally decided could go on the kitchen windowsill and some bookshelves. There were enough to give each one a pair, which was nice. Jon pointed out that there was a wolf and a dog that he could put together when Martin got a little  _ too  _ stressed out over where to put the little husky.

He ended up organising some playlists, different music for different times of day and different activities. The repetition was easy to follow, easy to put a schedule to. Martin would wake up, normally around nine or ten, and put on his “morning breakfast” playlist to make some tea with breakfast, normally waffles or eggs. Something easy for Jon. Every other day, he’d rattle around stories in his head to tell Jon while they ate. While it wasn’t…  _ exactly  _ necessary, he could do without them, Jon told Martin that he just liked learning about Martin, liked knowing him without having to Know. Without having to Look for it. When he’d told Martin that, Martin just looked down at his mug with a quiet, “Oh,” and a smile. 

He’d turn off the music to bring Jon, who woke up almost exactly once Martin was done cooking almost every morning, breakfast and tea in bed. Jon would smile up at him and ask Martin to eat with him. They would eat together and watch whatever show they were obsessing over that week. Whoever got up first would be on sink duty, bringing plates out to set them down for washing later. Normally it was when Jon went outside to write. Jon’s schedule was a bit looser than Martin’s, if only because he’d lived his life with  _ too many  _ schedules. Martin hadn’t lived with any. 

Some time in the afternoon, he would head to the office (a repurposed second bedroom) and listen to his “work” playlist. His work was simple, easy—former sponsors of the Archive kept his and Jon’s pockets lined enough to keep them afloat, as reports of “workplace abuse” weren’t exactly something that they wanted to associate themselves with, but it was nice to have some extra playing money. He wrote and published collections of poetry under a pen name. Most of them were too embarrassing to put his actual name to. His pen name was  _ super  _ stealthy, too: K.M. Sims. Pretty clever, he’d thought when he first went to the publishing office. Why use your own last name when you could use your fiancé’s and just switch some letters around? For a couple of months, he’d been working on a children’s book about brain fog explained through animals and plants. He would make some thumbnails, sketch them out, line and paint them, redo anything he wasn’t happy with. Normally he would ask Jon for critiques or advice if he wasn’t sure where to go with a page. He would ask Jon to look over anything new, too, make sure that it was cohesive and worked with the theme. 

Jon would normally bring him lunch and sit with him for a bit, head on his shoulder as he watched Martin work. They’d talk about how their days had been so far (normally more Jon than Martin), what cool birds they’d seen outside. Sometimes they’d take a break to watch a few videos that Jon was desperate to show Martin. After a bit, when he got too restless, Jon would kiss the top of Martin’s head and leave to do whatever it was he wanted to do. After work, around five, they’d meet back up in the living room for… whatever. There was no schedule there, which was nice. It would be  _ too  _ monotonous, Martin thought. Around six-thirty or seven, they would start on dinner together to Martin’s dinner playlist. Jon would usually help if there was anything to help with, sitting on the counter and watching intently, handing Martin things he needed from cabinets or the fridge. They would eat together to a show or a movie, normally of Jon’s choosing. After the sun went down for good, there were no schedules. Just them, just existing until they got too tired to exist anymore and went to bed. 

It was, by all accounts, perfect. 

It was the life that Martin had always wanted; a loving partner, a nice home, a little bit of structure. Obviously, Martin’s little schedule wasn’t every single day. There were days where he would be in too much pain or too under the weather to move, and on those days, their roles would switch. Jon would cook for him, despite Martin’s protests, bring him water and make sure he had everything he needed. Other times, Jon would be too energetic to stay inside, so they’d go out driving or go on some walks until he tuckered himself out. He’d rattle off random facts about things that he saw, sometimes things Martin would have never guessed he’d know, talk until his throat was dry and his eyes were heavy. Then, they’d go home, shower, and take a nap together. 

He  _ loved  _ that house, too. It was small, but it had a pretty nice garden and a lovely view of some fields around them. Their neighbours were kind, mostly old people who had retreated to the semi-secluded countryside for reasons similar to their own, but there were a few families around. There were some ladies down the street who fostered kids, a couple of mean ones would come through and make fun of Jon for being so small or poke fun at Martin’s weight, but they’d always come back later and apologise. Martin had overheard one of them being scolded once, on his way back from picking up some eggs from another neighbour. It wasn’t really  _ scolding,  _ even. It was the taller of the two explaining very gently why you shouldn’t make fun of people for how they look.

They had a nice life, one that they had earned and deserved and that they both loved.

It wasn’t always easy. They still fought over small things, as couples did. Sure, it was about whether or not using supernatural powers to avoid having to do the dishes was ethical or not, or how Asking how Martin was when he was flighty and quiet was probably not the best, but they were still just a normal couple fighting, forces slightly outside of their understanding aside. They never went to bed angry or upset with each other. Both of them refused to let the other “get away” with anything.

When Martin rolled up to their house during one of the worst storms Britain had seen in decades, a sopping wet…  _ thing  _ in the passenger seat, he expected Jon to be a  _ little  _ bit mad. It wasn’t the first time he’d brought home a stray—their cat, Van Gogh (Jon’s idea,  _ not  _ Martin’s, Martin would always insist), had been brought inside from under the porch when she was a kitten. “Just to foster her,” he’d said. “We  _ will  _ find her a good home.” After Martin was coaxed into keeping her after a few days, Jon had declared that the tip of her ear being missing meant she was obviously a Van Gogh. That was before they knew she was a girl, but neither of them cared enough to rename her. He’d brought home a few other animals to foster, normally ones he saw in shelters that he just could not leave behind, and Jon would always sigh and ask if they had any beds big or small enough or enough extra food.

When he opened the door, Jon stared at Martin like he was crazy. “What the hell—just let me get the bags! Get inside, oh, our poor car…”

“It’s been through worse, to be fair!” 

“Go inside!” Martin huffed and patted his leg. Jon watched as the mass trotted inside, dragging mud and water in with it. He shuddered.

When Jon came back inside, he could hear the bath running and Martin trying to calm down some whining. “There, there, See? That isn’t so bad, is it?” There was some faint snipping and buzzing.  _ Is he really cutting its hair?  _ After Jon got the groceries put away, he walked down to the bathroom to see exactly what he thought he would. Martin, sleeves rolled up and hair still dripping wet, trying to give the beast a wash. “Hey,” he said, sheepishly. 

Jon sighed and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Really?”

“He was on the street, Jon, I wasn’t going to let a dog stay out there in this weather.”

“That’s supposed to be a  _ dog?” _

“Don’t be mean! I think he’s… a Saint Bernard? Or maybe some sort of mountain dog… hard to tell. Do we have any dog food left from last month? I know we’ll need to get more, he’s a big dog, but—”

“Martin.” Jon sighed, again, and rubbed his hand down his face. “We can’t just… all right. I’ll go look. But  _ please  _ look online to see—”

Martin gave him one of the Looks. Martin had a couple looks that said so much more than words could, looks he gave Jon when he was a little bit overwhelmed. That one meant something along the lines of amounts of empathy that Jon had a hard time wrapping his head around. “He’s all matted, Jon. He’s not… not for a long time. I can try to find a home for him in a little bit, but he obviously needs some love before he’s sent off to someone else. Just for a little.”

“Okay. Fine, fine.” Jon threw his hands up dramatically and Martin smiled at him. “I’ll go look for some dog food.”

“Thank you, Jon. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Take a shower after you’re done taming the beast.”

It wouldn’t take long for Martin to finish up and take a shower himself. They found a bed that would fit him and laid in bed that night, Jon’s head on Martin’s chest, talking about different temporary names. The names Martin proposed were always ridiculous. He proposed Pie, a “hilarious name” because  _ pies  _ was one of the words for dog in Polish, according to him and Google Translate. Jon hesitantly agreed. He had no plans to keep that thing in his home, anyway. How would Van Gogh cope with such a big creature sharing her space? Poor thing.

Unlucky for Jon, the two got along  _ splendidly.  _ Pie had obviously belonged to someone at some point. He let Van Gogh bat at him and lay on him, in his bed. He knew how to sit and even wait for food, which made Jon raise his eyebrows. His massive tail would thump all morning while he sat next to Martin during the morning breakfast playlist. After a few weeks, the damn thing rarely left Martin’s side. And, as Martin had somewhat predicted, Jon grew extremely attached to him. He woke up one morning to an empty bed, something that rarely happened, only to hear Jon faintly yelling  _ “Good boy!”  _ from outside.

They filed adoption papers about two months later, and Pie was theirs to keep. He was a little bit flighty around older men, they found, and he was  _ terrified  _ of bikes, but he was learning more every day. He followed Van Gogh around and it was clear that he would let her be in charge, but everyone was completely fine with that. Martin loved his little family. Martin loved his home, he loved his  _ life.  _ He was happy, weird god-demon-alien-trickster-space-time-altering beings be damned. Nothing was going to take his life from him anymore, no matter how hard it tried.

Nothing was going to take Martin’s happiness anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> long time no writing!!! this is my first fic in. eight months jesus christ thats literally too many months. dear god. i am so different from how i was eight months ago. also what is my old mob psycho 100 fanfiction about. i was like 15 when i wrote all of that i'm 17 now. who am i. oh also as i write/post more tma fic i want it to be acknowledged that they will always be trans and autistic because this is simply my truth! if u agree u have a big brain and i love you <3


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